


you're in my muscle memory (you're in my bones)

by x (ordinary)



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: A sexy sexy scalpel, An asked for death!, Angst, Aromantic, Asphyxiation, Bipolar Disorder, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Consensual Violence, Death Wish, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Respawning, Scarification, Size Kink, Temporary Character Death, The comfort is death, There is comfort in the unconventional Caustic fashion, Unconventional Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-10 07:00:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19901686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ordinary/pseuds/x
Summary: When Octane gets like this, he quarantines himself. It's not good for him.Caustic can tell.It doesn't deter him.





	1. i said knock knock, let the devil in

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deathchasing@tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=deathchasing%40tumblr).



> WELL I ACCIDENTALLY PUBLISHED THIS SO. Hi! This was originally to break through writer's block so that I could go back to swimming with sharks with a clear head, but wow! This uh, ballooooned!! 
> 
> Full disclosure: this is heavy on the angst and mental shit. Feel free to skip to chapter 3 for the meat and potatoes.
> 
> If you're not familiar with my headcanon for how the games work, I strongly recommend checking out the lore link in the end notes. The TL;DR is that death is temporary and that everyone respawns anywhere in the game or in the compound, and it is a very relevant fact!
> 
> \--
> 
> title is from allie x - old habits die hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes he wakes up and the world is all wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title chapter from eminem - venom

The knocks come like the beating of a war drum: steady, loud, and insistent.

His temples pound in time right on with them.

Octane groans, giving the door a middle finger before rolling over on the couch and firmly pressing his face into a cushion. It smells like spilled booze, and serves as a reminder to set his bottle on the ground lest he do it again. His filter lies abandoned... somewhere, disconnected and forgotten. Alcohol churns through his veins like the poison it is, and-- unhindered by the thing that gets rid of stim in two seconds flat-- it means that Octane is well and truly _drunk_.

Despite his near catatonic state, his leg still bounces insistently. Not even tequila can sever him from the hyper-awareness of what awaits him on the other side of the door. 

It can't be Ajay or Natalie or anyone that would _normally_ seek out his company: they know better not to bother Octane when he gets "like this". Gone is the man who lets the world roll right off his back with a cocky smile, who easily insinuates himself into any conversation. That man is subsumed by someone-- some _thing_ \-- feral. It's impossible to predict what ugly thing he might spit as he lashes out at nothing, only wanting to inflict a hurt that pales to the heaving sickness that infects his body. Toxicity exudes from his pores, a leaking ichor that he cannot control. 

It doesn't leave him much of a choice, does it? He has to _contain_ it, has to remove himself from the equation entirely. In the safety of his room, Octane pens himself up in a self-made cage crafted to weather the storm of his all-encompassing rage. It burns hotter than a sun and twice as bright, and _fuck_. It doesn't matter how sloshed he is, Caustic's presence amps it up to ten thousand degrees. 

He's there. He's there, waiting for Octane, and he abso-fucking- _lutely_ cannot let Caustic see him like this.

Or, more accurately, he can't let Caustic see what he doesn't _want._

Right now, Octane is either a liability or a responsibility, and neither of those were part of the bargain. Together, they are arrangements and agreements, violence wielded just-so, and partners but not _partners_. Caustic does not soothe him when things go bump in the night because Octane never lasts _through it_. He shows up in the labs with coffee to die in a testing chamber, lays himself prostrate before a promised destruction and that's it. That's it.

Anything more than that just isn't in their DNA, and that's not just fine, it's _good_. It's fucking _perfecto._ It's the closest thing he's found to the perfect adrenaline high, the perfect needle in his vein over and over again, and Octane would rather set the world on fire than lose it. 

_He cannot open the door_.

He wants to, though, and that's a problem. When he'd started drinking it had been to blunt the worst of this, to slow down his rabbit heart and make the restless and furious energy inside him die down, if only for a little while. But it's only made _this_ worse, the apple from the tree waiting to be seized and bitten into. Desires course through him at the speed of light, each one rattling the bars, demanding to be listened to in a rising and cacophonous crescendo-- and Octane can't trust _any_ of them.

Because he _wants_ to open it just to scream at Caustic to fuck off and slam it in his face. He _wants_ to go apeshit and trash everything in sight just to relieve the tension for one tiny, tiny fraction of a second. He _wants_ to leave the compound and dive off a cliff with the risk of dashing himself on the rocks without the surety of a respawn.

He wants, he wants, and he _wants_ , the force of it sharp and barbed, like a fishhook piercing his ribs, yanking him slowly forward. Give in. _Give in_. The dissonance between logic and emotion rub up against each other like flint and tinder, and it's so _hard_ to hold onto himself. It's a process that takes up 100% of his computing without distractions, and now?

His resolve is slipping.

Every little flinch and twitch is evidence of restrained violence, his muscles taut and burning from a day of tensing over and over again. His insides roil like a mass of writhing worms because every part of him feels _wrong._ He is too many pieces of a puzzle shoveled haphazard into one lanky frame, stuck in this ill-fitting _body--_ in this ill-fitting _mind--_ like a snake stuck with skin it can't shed. Octane screams into a cushion, rendered wordless by the force of his emotions like a fucking toddler. The taste of battery acid and bitterness is heavy on his tongue, his breathing fast and shallow. Every breathing exercise is lost in the mist of his breakdown, the knowledge of how to pull himself back from the ledge dissipated into the wind like grains of sand.

The knocking stops, and it's a small oasis of relief. The temptation has been removed from him by force: no longer does Octane have to worry about how their relationship might fracture as a direct response to his failings. Opening the door would have meant a maze of interactions littered with dead ends and no way out, a choose your own adventure book with conclusions of the two flavors of bad and worse.

The very real possibility that he might have tried to throw it all away and _succeeded_ is terrifying. How long would it take? Five minutes? Five minutes for Caustic to see that dealing with Octane isn't worth the exhaustion of dealing with someone who's more mess than man. He'd never be able to find the same satisfaction with anyone else, not now that he knows what it feels like to succumb to the ultimate rush over and over again. Caustic has written his name deep into Octane's _flesh_ , and _mierda_ the memory still sends a shudder of glee-arousal-terror through his body from head to toe. 

But driving him Caustic off wasn't the only way to destroy things. What if things had _shifted_ like they had once upon a time? It could happen. Octane doesn't know what lies beneath the surface, what goes on in his life beyond the battlefield and the confines of the laboratory. It makes Octane's stomach churn with dread.

What if he has to worry about the anathema that is the cloying sweetness of being asked _what's wrong_? About his held being held gently, sweetly, without the promise of violence? Whether it's something that Caustic _is_ or if by some horrible chance it's what he decides that is what he's _supposed_ to do-- it's too terrible to behold.

Octane _knows_ that he's broken. He _knows,_ and doesn't not need a reminder of it, not when he's finally found someone who understands that is _all he can give._ He's not built for more: Caustic can have his lungs and his throat and the heart racing fast in his chest, so long as it comes with a kiss and a binding contract of a sweet demise. All he needs is for Caustic to kiss him with red running over his fingers like a cup overflowing. He wants fingers pressing into the stab wound warm and steady, because he trusts the pain more than any declaration. 

_That_ is their intimacy: the experience of leaving your life in someone's hands only to have them stamp it out again, and again, and again.

There are no other options. Octane has whirled around it again and again like an ouroboros of paranoia and anger and despair, examined it from all angles. The only possible reason that Caustic would stay is if he _cares too much_ , he's not worth it otherwise. Obsession redoubles itself, and his mind reminding him sickly sweet and smug that if he'd have just opened the door, he'd at least know where they stood. Now it's a black box of silence that's so loud, and his teeth grind against each other like shifting tectonic plates. Octane's emotions explode into resentment sharper than a needle's point-- how could he come. How could he _leave_ , how could _he, how could he--_

The quiet is so loud.

There is only the heaving of his lungs, the roar of his pulse in his ears, and the clang of his _fucking leg_ unable to still itself.

What are the stages of grief again? Octane doesn't have a fucking clue. Anger, denial, acceptance? There has to be acceptance somewhere in there, doesn't it? _Mierda_ , it has to be. His mind is a tilt-a-whirl, thoughts tangling around each other until he's not even sure what he's afraid of except that _he is afraid_. The choice has been wrenched from his hands and with every passing second he gets more sure of it: he's been abandoned-- forsaken! It hits with the intensity of a shotgun blast to the head, and all that worrying? All that deliberating? It was for nothing, how could he be so stupid?

They are exclusive and _important_ but Octane knows it's just for now. Anything he touches is a ticking time bomb and this one is swiftly approaching its expiration date. After all, Caustic can't stay interested forever: there is only so much knowledge you can extract from a person's bones before you know them inside and out-- and Caustic knows his well, now. So well. 

Octane rolls himself onto his back, staring up at the ceiling blankly. He clenches a fist over and over again, crescent moon bruises etched into the flesh of his palm from the repetitive motion, and contemplates how fucking moronic he is.

All of this is useless, _useless_. Who acts like this? Who _thinks_ like this? What kind of person is so easily taken by the horns and tossed to the ground by rolling a one on the dice that is their brain chemistry? It's like it flips him onto his back and says _Haha, puta! Got you now!_

Fuck. He's so _tired_ of it, so tired of the way he feels things that are too big for his body, how they drag him down into a pit straight to hell. It's not like he doesn't _know_ that he just needs to get back up and pull himself out, because no one is going to do it for him. He knows, but he also knows that there's no escaping this. The cycles are as inevitable as the passing of time.

Tomorrow, it will be better. Tomorrow, things will go back to normal, but tomorrow is an eternity away. Tomorrow doesn't _exist_. 

So, he's trapped. Trapped in a room, a rat in a cage, a cage in a _box_ , a box stuffed into a large black plastic bag that _suffocates_. It feels like dying and it turns his stomach. Octane chases danger with death as an incidental risk. Without something _interesting_ and _exciting_ going on, there's no point to it. Ending it himself isn't even on the _table_ and besides.

Outside of ring, that honor belongs to Caustic and Caustic alone-- and just like that, the pendulum swings _again_. Whiplash strikes with the intensity of a fever dream, burbling up with a hysterical laugh.

Maybe he _should_ fling open the door and pursue Caustic in a desperate chase. He is a stray chasing after someone who's fed it but won't take it home. He is a dog that does not know it is a dog. It has Octane curling up against himself not out of shame or sorrow, but out of the fervent need to still his limbs. Octane shakes with the exertion of trying to keep both hands off the metaphorical stove.

Fuck it. Octane gropes for the bottle of tequila, taking a messy pull from it. Some of it sloshes onto his shirt and It makes him _snarl._ Can't even do this little thing right. Can't even attempt to drown himself in numb without making more of a mess, and that's _it_.

The spell is broken, his fuse is _blown_.

He flings the bottle against the wall, glass shattering against it in an ugly shower of glass. There's an indent in the plaster from the collision and the half a second of feral satisfaction fades as soon as it shows its face. Now Octane has to deal with the fallout of his actions, the alcohol seeping into the carpet proof of his failings. He reaches for another one and repeats the action for the dopamine hit. His lungs are full of tar, his heart is full of holes, and his mind spirals out of control-- again, and again, and again-- like a ship with one engine out, and--

The door's lock releases with a soft electronic chime.

It opens with a hiss.


	2. desire arrives like a terrorist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn't have to be good to be _good_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from the golden palominos - metal eye
> 
> SORRY SORRY i know i said this chapter. it's next chapter!

Caustic steps into the room as though he owns it and every single hair raises on the back of Octane's neck.

He hasn't prepared for this, and it shows. Naked confusion paints itself across his face as he freezes, the second bottle still clutched tight in one hand.

Disaffected, Caustic glances around the room with distaste, lingering on the evidence of Octane's outburst with disapproval. Alcohol is seeping into the carpet. Shards of glass catch in the light. It's an embarrassment Octane just can't quite care about. Not now.

"I do not particularly enjoy resorting to this tactic, Octavio," he says, and something crawls up in Octane's chest and fucking dies. Without his respirator, Caustic's voice lacks its usual tinge of distortion, and it doesn't sit right in his chest. They _never_ start with it off; its removal is a ritual. Octane enters the labs as a specimen; Caustic welcomes him as a scientist.

Right now, he's just a man, albeit an intimidating one. That's all it takes for Octane's paranoia to redouble itself, and he shrinks back instinctively with hackles raised. No one else could undo him with a cool gaze and nine words or less. When they sink in, though, it's his turn to sneer. "Yeah, well. Not like I forced you to be here, _amigo_." Who had given him a key, anyway? Ajay? _Betrayer_. 

Caustic sighs, long-suffering, and Octane waits with bated breath for what's next. Is he going to end it now and leave the way he came? Is he going to _change_ and want something that Octane can't give? He doesn't want to be thrown away and he doesn't want _softness_ , but those are his only options. That's all there can be: their worldview is too narrow for more.

They fuck, they fight, and Octane dies. _That's it_.

That's it, except, Caustic doesn't seem like he's gotten the memo.

Instead, he approaches with a gait as steady as ever. His tone is even more chiding than before. "I beg to differ. You may not have forced my presence, but you _have_ forced my hand." A large hand grips Octane's chin and tips his head upward without mercy, until brown eyes meet green. There is no respirator between them, nor coat, nor gear. There is only a black sweater, slacks, and disapproval. "Being late to our... _arrangement_ necessitates my presence."

His breath hitches, and the urge to lunge up at Caustic's throat overwhelms him like a storm surge beating up against the cliff. Octane tears at his cuticles to resist the urge. It takes a lot of tearing. His fingers bleed, and he wants to look away but he _can't_. 

So, instead, he bares his teeth and slurs: "Quit making it a big _deeeal_."

Bare fingers slide back across a scruffy face until they cup the back of Octane's neck. They wind into his short hair, and the cool of prostheses rest against his scalp. "Oh," Caustic breathes, pulling Octane's head to his chest like a lover, and for a second there is only heat and hugeness and the smell of chemicals and coffee, "you will find that it _is_ a matter of great import."

Dread pours into his chest like an oil spill. _Please, no,_ he thinks, awaiting the rest of the sweet words that might come, the unveiling of small talk and held hands, _please, I can do anything for you, but **not that.**_

In his circular, spiraling thinking, though, Octane has forgotten one very, very important thing.

That Caustic does not tolerate many things, and **disrespect** damn near tops the charts. It shows in the way that his delicate hold does not last for long, and soon it tightens into something _harsh_ that feels like home. Taking Octane by the hair, Caustic drops to one knee with a decisive motion to slam his head against the ground with resounding force. It hits the carpet with an ugly thud, and a moan of pain and Pavlovian pleasure escapes Octane even as the ringing in his ears sings out above that cruel, velvet voice.

"Since you have decided to _forego_ a pleasant demise in my labs, it has become apparent that you need a reminder about what you are _for_." Caustic's touch does not gentle. It stays unkind and familiar. "I can be generous, when it suits me, and it appears that my charity is required." 

Octane attempts to catch his breath, even as a thumb gently caresses the soft fuzz of his shaved head. He shoves himself up onto his elbows, a mess of splayed limbs of flesh and metal. Pain means that Octane's world is righting itself, bit by bit, but he just. Can't. Stop. Being. _Difficult_.

So he spits blood onto the carpet, humiliation burning bright in his belly. " _Que te jodan,_ doc." 

Caustic's smile grows sharp around the edges. It is jagged glass. He knows enough Spanish, now, to know the nature of thrown insults. "Not quite yet," he says, giving Octane one last yank for the road before vanishing into the bedroom. 

Slowly, Octane sits back up on his haunches, woozy and nauseous with dread and booze and _anticipation_. He's not sure how much time passes before Caustic's return, filtering device in hand. He drops it at Octane's feet in a clatter. Its lights blink on. "I have no desire to escalate without you being fully cognizant."

Octane stares at it, mute.

This is too _easy_.

He's being rewarded for bad behavior, and with a whine in the back of his throat Octane knows on a molecular level that he doesn't _deserve_ this death. He's done nothing to earn it; anything but. To accept it feels _wrong._ Like a trap. 

Hooking it up means getting real sober, real fast, and if experience has taught him anything, it's that siphoning out whatever's in his blood isn't going to improve his mood. If anything, it makes it worse, and that's why Octane hasn't been in front of anyone like this in so, so long. The idea of being like this in front of Caustic of all people has him turned upside down and inside out. His mind is still buffering in an attempt to catch up to the program and failing.

"No," he snaps, scrambling to his feet with a teetering wobble, metal limbs scraping against each other in the process. He can't _trust_ this. Octane doesn't have many limits but they have set _parameters_ and these aren't _it_. It doesn't make any sense. Why is he _trying_? Like a rabid dog, he lunges at Caustic with both hands out, to send him stumbling. body uncoiling from its tightly wound spring. It is ecstatic at the prospect of violence, and the dopamine hit from letting it just _happen_ supersedes everything, pushing out the last scrap of logic out of Octane's mind in a sea of red.

Caustic staggers back until he hits the dining table, sending accumulated mess flying, and the pleasant but menacing patience evaporates in favor of cold fury. " _Octavio_ ," he warns, grabbing for one of his skinny wrists with a grip so tight that his bones grind. "I am _done_ enduring your willful ineptitude." Reeling Octane in isn't hard, even in spite of his flailing limbs. Caustic has always been able to move him around: he has the benefit of sheer size. His arm lays over Octane's torso like a steel bar that does not give, and the struggle of it all sends furniture askew. He holds Octane _tight_ against his chest, as he walks them back until they hit a wall. He is hot and broad, stomach pressing up against Octane's spine. 

His hand winds up to Octane's throat, and Caustic meticulously crushes his windpipe with bruising pressure. He can flail all he wants, but the air is gone and Caustic's heart beats as fast as his own. The pain is persistent, and he _hates_ it. The pain is persistent and it's the first time the clouds have parted all _fucking_ day. Octane doesn't give a shit about damage he can do to himself, but Caustic always proceeds with a plan for an experiment, even if he never says what it is.

Octane chokes, face going red and splotchy, drool slipping down his chin. Even so, he leans into the grasp with a silent whimper, black spots dotting his vision like a beautiful visage. All of his wants do an about turn: pure violence slips into violence and sex, and Octane _understands_. 

It _is_ a reminder of his place in the world, that he can be good just by bearing the pain and its eventual follow through. Just by wanting what he wants, he can be good.

The asphyxiation abates, and then there's an _audible_ whisper, this time of disappointment. Caustic nudges at his ear, breath warm against Octane's ruddy skin, fingers stroking against his neck. "There are conclusions I have yet to see in you. To waste this potential would be... foolish. Do you understand?"

The parameters have been reestablished, and the relief of it cuts Octane's marionette strings. He goes limp in the man's hold, welling up with the understanding that these are just new boundaries to explore, to push. Caustic does want more from him, but he wants what he can excise. Weakly, Octane nods wordlessly against Caustic's neck, beard tickling at his cheek.

"Your _words_ , Octavio." 

"Yes," he says, voice scratchy, arching back into Caustic like a cat seeking attention, eyes fluttering closed. " _Si,_ yes." 

"Good. Now behave." Caustic lets go, stepping away to take a seat in a crooked armchair. He waves a hand at the filtering device.

Stumbling towards it, Octane grabs for it with clumsy fingers, fumbling to attach it as he makes his way to the space between Caustic's spread legs. He slips back to the ground, waiting for the purifying to kick in. The restlessness in his bones has diverted itself, a river redirected as he understands that this is merely a _continuation_ of Caustic's system. He has decided that Octane is worth staying for-- worth _investigating_ \-- and it's enough to make him giggle softly to himself. He has the upper hand, here, even as he awaits becoming a specimen again. He is a _prized_ one, and all those fears some distant now, discarded in the purifying and elated light that is validation. _Vindication_.

Octane is no one's other half of a whole. He is one half of a mutually assured obsession.

They fuck, they fight, and Octane dies, and when he's suffering at something besides Caustic's hands-- well. That's something he can fix, isn't it?

It doesn't take long for the machine to extract every drop of tequila, and Octane blinks his eyes rapidly, the world sharpening into angles and lines. He disconnects the machine, patting the canister like a dog that's done well. 

When he raises his eyes, Caustic's gaze is trained squarely on him, calculating and ravenous. looks past skin in favor of searching for the parts of him that Octane can give no words to. Like he sees blood and organs and procedures, and a full-body shiver runs through him, lightning fast and just as strong. There's a hungry ache in his chest that will never cease, one that is mirrored in Caustic's one. 

Octane breathes in deep, bows his head until it touches Caustic's knee, steadying himself against someone he trusts, even though he is distinctly the type of man you should never trust.

"Sorry, _amigo_ ," he says, quiet, leg bouncing even as he kneels. The wellspring of energy sits still in his chest, tamed but not evaporated. Even now, Octane is still a prized animal in need of a guiding hand that he so desperately seeks out. For a moment, he struggles to find a way to explain himself and fails. Instead he shrugs, licking at his chipped tooth, grinning helplessly.

Caustic snorts, and his hand comes to rest heavy on Octane's head, and now he recognizes it correctly as the calm before the storm. "Words are cheap," he says, "only _results_ have meaning."

Octane's grin gets wilder, sliding up his face until it is cocky and sure. He feels more and more like himself with every second that passes. He'll earn this death. "Sooo, you gonna tell me how you're getting those, or am I just going to have to guess?"

Caustic's response is pulling a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, snapping them on one by one. Their powdery scent makes Octane's heart skip a beat, and a pulse of arousal blooms instantly in response. "It depends," he croons, an ugly smile curls up Caustic's face, "on where you would like to make the mess."


	3. what will it take to make you capitulate?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Octane gets what he deserves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from grimes - we appreciate power 
> 
> OKAY OKAY SORRY SORRY IT'S HERE! FINALLY. 
> 
> Please make sure you're aware of my lore and how death and respawning are trivialized, because this is when the blood and violence and gore kick in. There is a lot of sexy, sexy gore. I'm not entirely sure how to warn for what's coming, so I will put it in the end notes? Enjoy!

Octane's limbs kick into action before his mouth does. With a spring in his step, he takes off down the hallway, bouncing around as he strips out of his ratty shirt. "Bathroom!" he shouts, waving a nonplussed Caustic over before kicking the door open with a resounding bang.

He topples inside with an over eager stumble, only just barely catching himself against the edge of the sink. Excitement buzzes around inside of him like a physical presence, a swarm of bees trapped in a kicked hive. He might genuinely vibrate off this fucking plane of existence before Caustic can get to him, and that's the only thought that calms him.

Hardly able to contain his own excitement, Octane closes his eyes and takes in a deep, steadying breath. All of his energy channels into anticipation and more; prickling skin, hammering pulse, and a pulsing cock. Caustic is messing with something in the living room, crinkling plastic and cloth, because of course he's come prepared, of _course_ he has.

Good. The smile on Octane's face hurts almost as much as his head, and it's all so, so worth it.

He is ready for the demons in his head and in his swiftly beating heart to be exorcised.

He is ready for purification.

He is ready for the end that is not the end.

The jitters in Octane's hands have stilled enough for him to undo the locking mechanism on his left leg with ease. He tosses it into the hallway carelessly, knowing full well that he should _probably_ be more delicate with them. It seems kinda pointless though, considering the wear and tear they go through in the arena. He twists to hop up onto the counter, but his reflection stops him in his tracks.

Slowly, Octane pushes himself fully up and onto the ledge, apathetic to the bottles that skitter across the floor.

A frown looks strange on his face, but man, he looks like absolute _shit_. It's always a hard reminder, seeing how sickness of the brain affects the rest of you. The exhaustion from day of endless anxiety has given him a sickly pallor. His eyes are still bloodshot. All of Octane's features have always been razor sharp, but drugs and adrenaline have carved out their fair share of real estate. He is scarred and he is sunken and he is a mess. The combination makes him look more like a junkie than usual.

Octane pauses, for just a beat, then shrugs. Meh! Who cares? He knows his worth. Blowing a raspberry at his mirror self is the mature choice he takes before turning his attention back to his remaining prosthetic. Off it goes, thrown out like the other. Honestly, he could fix most of his _superficial_ problems, if he wanted to. The scars all around his face, the torn ear, the nose that's been broken thrice over-- all of that is just a plastic surgery away from resolution. It wouldn't even break the bank, but why would he _want_ to? All that shit is proof of _life._ What's the point of doing anything if you don't have the possibility of coming out distinctly _not_ fine? 

Plus, Octane knows he can get away with murder, mask on or mask off. Perks of being a charmer! And a _little_ famous. And _kind_ of a big deal. So what if he looks kind of like a rat?

Caustic rounds the corner with rolled up sleeves and a little black bag that is _definitely_ full of terrible tools, and Octane can tell that he's become Caustic's entire world. There is naked hunger in his gaze, and Octane grins so, so wide. He _really_ doesn't care if Caustic sees him as a snack of the metaphorical or literal variety, because he's always been fine with both. No matter what Octane looks like, what matters most is how his pulse fades away. Looks are by definition secondary to the vicious connection that they share.

Octane would be _hella_ lying if he said he didn't enjoy the view, though. He'll always take character over traditional beauty any day, because what is a human if not the compilation of their flaws? Caustic is old, dour, soft in the stomach and cruel in the heart, and it drives Octane fucking _loco._ He's a high that's _always_ has on tap, ready to inject itself into Octane's veins at will.

How had he questioned this? How had he _forgotten_? 

(He knows, though. He knows how. The brain is not particularly logical, and Octane's is full of rot. When it is dark and all seems lost, even the most certain of facts crumble in the wake of his sickness. Knowing that is how it works does not make it any less an awful beast. Knowing that is how it works does not rob it of its sway.)

Elation sings in him on a subatomic level, and he basks in the validation of Caustic's laser focus on him, him, _him_

"A wise rare decision, Octavio," Caustic says dryly. "I will be sure notify housekeeping when I take my leave." He shuts the abused door behind him with a soft click and Octane has to laugh. Caustic's always preferred close quarters, and it's fucking hilarious. Sometimes-- okay, a _lot_ of the times-- the guy's exactly the same outside of the ring as he is inside of it. 

Octane waggles his brows and offers a two finger salute in response. "Thanks, _amigo_ , I owe you one." He jabs a thumb in the direction of the medicine cabinet. Rows and rows of little green vials sit pretty inside it, waiting for the using. "Stim or nah?" he asks, tapping his fingers against a clothed thigh.

Caustic hums a little as he lays down the little pack filled with his weapons of choice. "Ah, not today. A control is necessary prior to any adjustments." The glint of a clean, sharp scalpel draws Octane's eyes. Caustic is freeing it from its prison: a pristine plastic bag, like a tool sterilized in preparation for surgery. He bites his lip at the sight.

Yeah, he needs out of these pants. _N_ _ow_. Desperately shimmying out of them, Octane shoves them up off his hips and down his stumps until he is left bare. Exposed. His cock lays heavy against his thigh, already half hard, its piercings catching in the light. 

Despite Caustic's clinical demeanor, a sound of appreciation slips out at the sight. There is a stilling of his hands, a catch in his chest. It sets Octane's nerve ablaze, the shapeless energy in his bones singing in appreciation of being _seen_. He hooks an arm around Caustic's neck and pulls himself closer for a kiss full of bite. Jagged enamel drags sharp as Octane draws blood, until the taste of copper lies heavy on his tongue. Warm, warm red spills from their lips at the seams. It drips down Octane's chin.

Caustic grabs his face with a bruising grip and feeds a snarl into his mouth, returning the brutality in kind. They are a Möbius strip, a codependent feedback loop. He fists his hands into black wool to keep him _close_ even as Caustic pulls away from the kiss. The loss of it makes him whine. 

"You're interrupting," Caustic chides, voice hoarse as he wipes his mouth with the back of one hand. Octane shrugs helplessly, unapologetic. He doesn't bother to clean up any of the mess, and instead basks in the knowledge that there's no way to tell whose blood is whose.

Sex has always been about sharing fluids, so what's one more? In the end, blood is the only important one. In the end, the final pages of his book are written in sanguine ink, every page before it blank. 

Only the end matters.

The end is swiftly approaching.

The scalpel presses up against Octane's belly, the kiss of its blade cool. It does not move, not yet, because Caustic is drinking in the sight of Octane's back in the mirror. It has so many scars, each one of them telling a story about a chapter of Octane's life. The road rash from childhood, the curved one up on his hip from a near miss from being impaled. Shrapnel scars from the accident.

None of those hold Caustic's interest, though.

The one that does is new. It is all clean lines and angles and letters, carved out from flesh with a scalpel not unlike the one that is resting lightly over his liver. It is _meaning_ , laid into the skin between his shoulder blades.

It is a reminder just for them.

It is what Caustic endeavors to give him over, and over, and over.

Adrenaline.

It says a great deal about them that the brand is not of ownership. It is a promise of repetition. It is a promise of delivered goods.

(Pain is not what revs Octane's engine, but he _is_ conditioned to it. That much was tested as he let Caustic strap him down and _carve_. He bore the brunt of strips removed without local anesthesia, a choice made all on his own. Agony is a precursor to relief. Agony is a prerequisite for a satisfactory end.

It was easy to get it healed fast in a way that would _stick._ A quick trip to a tattoo parlor in Solace City for a quick-heal is all it takes. Overwriting your save state is possible without question. Now, Octane will carry through all of his lives. Through all of his deaths.)

So Caustic better fucking deliver.

"Come on then," he says, hoarse, rubbing his face against Caustic's beard like an eager cat. "Let's go for a ride."

Caustic nods, smiles, and cuts him open from navel to collarbone.

It is one smooth, swift slice, and Octane _screams_. He shudders and finches away, even as his decorated dick pulses strong against his leg. "All in due time," Caustic hums, watching with great interest as red wells up from the wound in rivulets. Blood slides down his chest, collecting in the v of his hips as it drips into the sink, onto the counter. Onto the floor.

Octane falls back against the mirror, struggling to regain the balance needed to remain upright. "Hoo boy, that _stings_ ," he wheezes, shaking his head to clear it. "Is that smart guy talk for 'I'm gonna make you wait'?" He runs a finger along the groove of the incision with a shake in his touch. It's not _that_ deep, but it's enough to dig in a little and _drag._ Octane's body rebels against him, flinching away from his bloodied own hand with a violent twitch.

Caustic's other hand curls around Octane's cock, latex covered thumb dragging against his piercings. "Correct," he says, voice rough. Without the mask, Octane can tell that a flush has crept up Caustic's neck, spurred on by Octane's display. "It seems as though there is a point I must make."

He strokes Octane off at a leisurely pace, letting blood be what eases the friction between glove and skin. It stings so sweet, and Octane can't keep himself from bucking into him, clenching his thighs around Caustic's waist as he pants open mouthed. 

Carefully, the scalpel glides up and to the right, until it rests just so on the side of Octane's neck. Octane shivers, leaning up into it, whining. He knows his own anatomy so well, now. He knows exactly what lines beneath. The blade is positioned over their most intimate place, more than lips and tongues and dicks.

Caustic's favorite place to nick the carotid.

Starbursts of agony explode behind his eyes as Caustic cuts away at the epidermis above it. He can't stop his body from convulsing, hips thrusting up into Caustic's tight, unyielding grip. His crossed wires have him wailing, because the blade. Doesn't. stop. He can feel the blood as its seeps up around it, but there is no glorious spray, only the pain so sharp it is _crystalline_. 

Caustic pulls the blade away, and Octane whimpers broken sounds of relief and disappointment. He can barely breathe, but he knows that he _wants_. With messy hands, he fumbles for Caustic's pants, staining them crimson as paws at his clothed erection.

"Not yet." Caustic presses a kiss to Octane's temple, his grin sharp. "Be still." 

It is an impossible command. Caustic presses his thumb against the laceration and oh, Octane _yowls_ , unable to stop himself, unable to obey. He scrabbles for Caustic's back instead, fingers turning into claws as he holds on for dear life. He teeth sink into a shoulder through a mouthful of wool sweater, and a distant part of him is thankful for the soundproof nature of his quarters. 

Because, ha. He really does sound like a dying animal in here.

"Fuck," he whispers into Caustic's skin, "fuck, _joder_ , _fuck_." A cold sweat breaks across his skin, so cold in the chill of the bathroom. "I c-can't." The thumb lets up and Octane falls limp. So little harm can do so _much_ to him, but that's part of the appeal. Their bodies are constantly reborn anew: Octane never has a chance to get more tolerance to the pain. It's a constant that never changes.

Caustic knows his organs better than he does. It makes him moan, terrified.

"It wasn't an order." Caustic sucks a bite into his neck, right below the warm and messy wound. He laps around it, looking every bit like a wild animal in the middle of a feast. He is all gravel, and all blood. It shows between his teeth. "It was merely... advice."

Caustic presses his tongue into the cut and Octane can only swear in incoherent sobs as he writhes. His head slams back against the mirror so hard that it cracks. Glass digs at his scalp and it doesn't _matter_. There is only the way Caustic tonguefucks him at the same pace he strokes off Octane's cock, blunt nails dragging occasionally against skin. There is only the obscene sound of blood and precome.

Fuck, he wishes he'd kept his prosthetics on. He wants force Caustic _closer_ , wants him to hurt with the pressure, but instead he is held down in two places, a pinned butterfly. Like a child having a tantrum, Octane ineffectively kicks his legs.

"You fucking _pendejo_ ," he spits, trembling, hips bucking, chest heaving. He longs for the finish line, in part because he does not know where it _is_. Normally, the incision would have been deep enough the _first_ time to unleash a beautiful torrent of blood leaving him so fast that it leaves him faint. His enjoyment of the process is inimitable, a never-ending adoration of the inevitable decline. Arousal rages relentless like the brackish waves of a stormy sea, lusting for the guillotine above his head.

The guillotine does not yet come. 

Tears streak down his face.

Octane brings his elbow down on top of Caustic's head with a snarl. " _Mierda_ , what are you _waiting_ for? Keep _going_."

Caustic hisses and his grip on Octane grows too tight. He deliberately presses too hard against one of his ladder piercings, a threat and a reminder both. "If you insist." His voice is cold.

Delicately, so delicately, his teeth slide and catch on the skin, and he _tugs_. There is a horrible, fleshy tearing sound, and then blood starts to pour in earnest. Octane's entire body twists and contorts as he tries to get away, which only makes it _worse_. The mirror fractures and shards embed themselves into his head, his neck. It is jagged and horrible, and the whole of him is assaulted by the pain.

This is so _different_. Normally, the incision would have been deep enough the _first_ time to unleash a beautiful torrent of blood leaving him so fast to leave him faint. This is a new brand of playing with his food, and it dawns on him that this _is_ the reminder. A revelation borne out of suffering. Out of torment. Oh. _Oh._

Caustic laughs and it rumbles through his body, and in a disconnected way he thinks that there's never been a better sound. In it comes tacit approval despite his inability to stop his body's natural urge to try and _live_. He wants completion, he wants to die _now_ , while he basks in purification.

It does not come.

Instead, Caustic pulls away and spits red and skin into the sink. Octane's leaking erection lays against his thigh, looking every bit a horror show. Some of the blood has dried enough to be tacky, some of it flakes away. His chest is a sanguine painting both fresh and old, and Caustic gazes at it fondly as he snaps off the gloves, one by one.

"Finally," he grunts, helping Caustic tug the sweater up and off so he can finally _look_ at him. Brick by brick Caustic is collapsing down to his level. They are feral. They are fond. Octane shivers as Caustic drags a finger up his chest through the oozing cut, eyes squeezing tightly shut. He hears Caustic tug down the zipper of his pants, hears him hiss as he finally lays a hand on his own length.

He presses his length up against Octane's, grabbing them both in his huge hand. Caustic kisses him again, free hand grabbing for the scalpel on the counter. No barriers, now.

No, that's not quite right.

There's no barrier between them but _skin._

Caustic licks into his mouth, panting hard. The end is coming soon; Octane can tell from the way his pace gets sloppy. Arousal crackles between them like a live wire touching water. "Ah," he murmurs, thumbing at Octane's slit. "I suppose it is time for the surprise." 

There is no barrier between them but skin, and that is what he seeks to remove. The knife goes back to where it hurts and cuts _deeper_ , enough that he can press his finger deep against the neatly exposed artery. It stays there, a firm hold no matter how his willing victim thrashes.

Octane feels his pulse like never before, touched so intimately. Caustic is _inside of him_. Nausea rolls in his belly as much has his orgasm does, cresting behind his eyes. The sounds he's making are inhuman, a body reduced to nothing. He is dust. He is emptiness, he is wiped clean. Caustic's grin is so wide, green eyes trained on Octane's.

"That is your carotid," he croons, licking a stripe of congealing blood off of Octane's chest. There's so much of it on his face, in his beard. It coats the pristine white all around them in splatters and rivulets. He noses at Octane's ear, possessive not of Octane's whole, but his parts. "It's _mine_."

Octane can't take any more. He feels his balls pull up and the tension in his chest and neck coming undone as orgasm takes him into oblivion. " _Quiero que estés dentro de mi._ " The wailed words are not his, they belong to the body he is leaving behind. "Inside. _Inside_ , I need you, I _need_ \--"

Come paints his belly, shooting up his chest, mixing with the groove carved into his chest. It stings but cannot cross the gulf of Octane's agony. 

"I know," Caustic says, like one might reassure a crying dog. "I know." He releases his hold on Octane's spent cock, focusing now on his own pleasure. He jerks with abandon, breathing heavy against Octane's cooling skin. The experiment is coming to a close. "You've earned your wish."

Caustic severs the carotid in a clean cut that covers them both in a spray uncontrollable. He drags the scalpel long to split it wide, until it is big enough for him to slide his thumb into the artery itself. 

There are no more words in Octane's mind, no more thoughts but shock and panic and desire. He'd wanted a reminder of value and this was the ultimate proof of a two way obsession. Caustic is _inside of him_ in a way that tops getting fucked. There is so much _blood_ , and Caustic doesn't bother to even attempt staunching it. He merely wants to _feel it._ The metal clatters into the sink, because this is all they are, now. Just them. Just them and death and the complete and utter desire to crawl inside of each other's skin.

Octane's pulse grows fainter and fainter. He is running out of _time_. He is approaching absolution. 

There are no lights at the end of the tunnel, only the knowledge that this will all be over soon. Octane's body stills, his eyes go glassy, and Caustic spills onto his body with a snarl just in time for Octane to expire.

His body vanishes, whisked away by the compound's inner workings. All that's left behind is a chip to take to the regeneration room and the bloody and the messy remains of their brand of love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: vertical cut on entire chest, digging fingers into that, blood all sorts of blood in general, a deep cut in the neck, tongefucking that cut, bite that tears that skin, pressing fingers into a soon cut artery that leads to a bleed out. Phew! 
> 
> \--
> 
> Thanks for bearing with me on this unexpected and unexpectedly long journey... This is my life I guess! I may add an epilogue or something to this later, but for now, I think this journey is at its abrupt, adoring end.
> 
> Shoutout to @deathchasing on tumblr, who gave me the inspo for this fic's trajectory entirely.


	4. you can't help who you are (epiogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath but the mat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from allie x - old habits die hard
> 
> i guess i did feel like an epilogue!

Octane wakes up in the regeneration room, blinking himself awake with a grunt. All of his limbs and all of his everything struggle to remember that they're something solid instead of... goo. Fragmented memories shuffle into place, reassembling themselves like video of breaking glass played in reverse. 

When the picture is put back together, Octane cringes.

He's always felt like the person who lets himself spiral is separate from the rest of him. Like he just closed his eyes and someone else opened them, because _jeeze_. Octane's keyed up and ready to go at all times, but turning into a furious soup of terror-rage-anxiety is really not his idea of a good time. If he distances himself from it enough-- like he can now-- it's not too hard to pinpoint the underlying reasoning for it. Something that's a problem but not a big _deal_ , until it suddenly is. Until he's worn down enough that it seems justified to lose his fucking shit.

A page turns beside him, and Octane nearly jumps out of his skin.

"What the fuck!" he shouts, twisting to see who it is-- and blinks upon seeing Caustic, and then squints.

He's back in usual lab coat, respirator mask back in place. He doesn't even bother to acknowledge Octane before he's done reading the page. It's something on a clipboard, not yet in a folder. Octane can't read what's on it, but that's not unusual. To be frank, his handwriting is kind of shitty.

"Octavio," he says, and his voice is as bland as ever. "You finally rouse." Caustic leans back in one of the chairs meant for visitors, watching him with intent. Which... he was, technically. It just felt weird. But things have sort of elevated to a new level of weird, as of yesterday. 

"Uh. I guess so?" He flops back, twisting onto his side in the bed. His legs are back on, which is nice. It means that Caustic had brought them here. It didn't matter much when they were in the arena-- _all_ of him gets returned and reassembled-- but when they're in the compound itself, there was no need to let them go getting banged up in processing.

Octane squints more. 

" _Please_ don't tell me you've been here all morning, _amigo_."

"Don't be foolish," Caustic snorts, "I returned your prosthetics last night. There was much to document."

A flush creeps up Octane's neck, and his face slides into a shit-eating grin, his gaze an absolutely leer. "Ehehehe. Yeah I bet! I made quite a splash, eh?" He snickers and crosses his arms behind his head, letting one leg slide off the bed. As he lets it bounce, Octane examines exactly how he feels. Happy, he thinks. No, definitely happy. There's no cup of coffee, nor a brought breakfast. He's not particularly interested in asking if Octane's okay. The status quo has indeed evolved, but their dynamic hasn't. 

"As much as I am loathe to encourage your verbiage... Yes." He taps his fingers against the clipboard, and it dawns on Octane that is his _specific_ report. It's quite a few pages deep, and he would bet dollars to donuts that there's at least _one_ super fucking metal diagram on it that showed exactly how he took Octane apart. That shows exactly how he decided to cut that artery. How he'd dug his thumb in and felt the life fade out of Octane moment by moment--

It'd probably be a bad idea to piss the techs off by deciding to suck Caustic off right here, but hey, a guy can dream. Wait, shit. He should really be paying fucking attention. 

"...Consequently, there was significantly more data to record, given your initial state."

Octane groans, rolling his eyes. " _Mira_ , don't remiiind me! You should just forget about that part. The rest was so much better, eh?"

Leaning over to set the clipboard on the bedstand, Caustic pulls his chair closer with a dull scrape. "I beg to differ. Your initial absence was a certain disappointment, but your behavior led to an inevitable conclusion that was satisfactory." He presses two fingers to Octane's neck, right at the spot where he'd made the incisions. He gulps.

"Inevitable?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. 

"Ms. Che informed me weeks ago of the possibility." Caustic sounded annoyed, possibly with himself. He probably didn't like that he had to be told _anything_ , but that sure did give away the fact that she _did_ give him the key. 

Octane leans into the touch, tilting his head thoughtfully. Well, as thoughtfully as he gets. Which, in these normal circumstances, wasn't very much. "So what does that mean for me?" he asks, and it was clearly the right question. A smile blooms beneath Caustic's mask as he takes hold of the rest of Octane's neck and presses his thumb down, down, down. It hurts. It will bruise. 

"It means that we will be repeating the encounter in your room," Caustic murmurs through his mask, "for untainted data." 

He winds his own fingers around Caustic's thick wrist, his own grip tight enough to bruise. "AAaanndd what does that mean about yesterday's shit?" 

The unspoken words: _What about when I'm fucked up again?_

Caustic rolls his eyes without hesitation, beleaguered. "It means that when this _irregularity_ surfaces again, I will be prepared to take the necessary actions to achieve results. I have several scenarios in mind already."

Octane cackles, uncaring of the attention he draws, and absolutely gropes Caustic's dick through his pants. " _Awesome_. Now let's go taint my room and get some untainted data, _sí_?"

The way Caustic's pupils blow is as good an answer as any. 

**Author's Note:**

> [The Apex Games Rule Book](https://dangerjunkie.tumblr.com/post/186314846212/apex-legends-rule-book) \- How respawning works, how bodies and minds are stored through repeated lives, how death boxes work, etc
> 
> This is not specifically a playlist for the fic itself, but it is what I listened to while I wrote: [inspo playlist](https://dangerjunkie.tumblr.com/post/186703491192/youre-in-my-muscle-memory-youre-in-my-bones)
> 
> I'm [dangerjunkie](https://dangerjunkie.tumblr.com/) on tumblr should anyone wanna pop by and say hi!
> 
> \--
> 
> If it's not already VERY obvious, this also ended up a way to exorcise my own inner demons. This sort of episode is part and parcel of my life with bipolar 2. Even medicated, they can last for hours, and Octane can't take stabilizers with his filter, and he'd rather deal with these than give up stim and the games. 
> 
> Additionally-- yes, this particular Octane is aro. I wanted to explore the fact that you can have a fulfilling relationship by your own standards even if it lacks the standard earmarks of a traditional one. 
> 
> Hopefully I can actually deliver on swimming with sharks in a week or so!


End file.
